


Boston's Saints

by NaughtyPastryChef



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Ass to Mouth, Boondock Saints AU, Bottom Dean Winchester/Top Sam Winchester, Canon-Typical Violence, Coming Untouched, Dirty Talk, First Time, Guns, Incest Kink, Knives, Language Kink, M/M, Movie AU, Prostate Orgasm, Rimming, Switching, Top Dean Winchester/Bottom Sam Winchester, major character death isn't sam/dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 04:59:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12927990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaughtyPastryChef/pseuds/NaughtyPastryChef
Summary: Sam and Dean Winchester are a little rude, a little crude and would rip the world apart to save each other. A Wincest retelling of the movie Boondock Saints.





	Boston's Saints

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alphadick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alphadick/gifts).



> Oh, wow, so much love and thanks to doilycoffin and ilikaicalie and lopsided_whiskey_grin for the epic beta work and the read throughs. I have been assured that if you have not seen the movie, this will still make sense.

 

Sam and Dean Winchester walk out of the church before the early morning Mass is even finished. Stepping onto the street in their matching dirty jeans, work boots and pea-coats, they stop to each light up a cigarette. Dean shades his eyes and squints down the street towards their work for the day.

“Seems wrong to have to work on Saint Patty’s, doesn’t it?” He nudges his brother’s arm with his own and they step together, walking towards the meat packing plant.

“It should be a national holiday, in Boston at least.” They walk past someone who has, even at seven am, clearly started celebrating already. Both boys keep their eyes on the drunk man with his head-to-toe green clothing as they walk past him, continuing on to work.

“Some people seem to think it is.” They walk on in silence, smoking away in the cool morning air. The walk is long but they’ve been walking the city their whole lives and don’t notice anything but the scenery anymore. 

Soon they’re at the meat packing plant and they get to work, joking and playing as much as they can get away with. Their boss appreciates the lighthearted air they bring to the workplace and gives them more than a little leeway, but sometimes he has to lay down the law.

“Ey, now fuckers, that’s enough. We got enough work to do without you two fucking it all up before we can finish. I got a new trainee for you.” The boss gestures the Winchesters towards a large woman standing in the corner, looking nervous.

“This is Sam and Dean. Don’t let them fool you, they’re my best workers. You just watch them and they’ll teach you what you need to know.” The tall redhead looked vaguely angry and the brothers shared a brief look before separating, Dean to pull the girl in and show her the ropes, Sam to another station in the adjoining room.

“So, what do I call you, then?” Dean asked cautiously. He gestured to the table they’d be working at.

“You can call me Abaddon.” The woman said with more conviction than Dean had been expecting.

“Can I call ya Abby?” He grinned, turning on the charm as he grabbed his preferred knife and pulled the large slab of beef closer.

“You may not.” Dean pursed his lips together and nodded to himself.

“Okay, so the rule of thumb here is-” before he could finish what he was saying, Abaddon was screaming at him.

“Rule of thumb? Do you know where that comes from? In the fifties, it was legal for men to beat their wives, as long as they used a stick smaller than their thumb.”

Dean didn’t think, he reacted, raising his hand in the air with his thumb sticking out. He made a face at it and showed the assembled workers. “Look at that. Can’t do much damage with that. Should’a been a rule of wrist.” He circled the fingers of his right hand around his aloft left wrist.

“Disgusting. I knew you were a prick who was gonna give me trouble from the minute I saw you.” Abaddon looked as though she wanted to punch Dean and he took a short step back in preparation.

“Calm down girlie. Just trying to give you a hard time. It’s a joke! C’mon, it’s Saint Patty’s Day!” Sam stepped in to stop the fight before it could go any farther, but Abaddon would not be calmed down. She swung at Sam, knocking him off his feet. 

When Dean saw his brother on the ground with a hand to his cheek, he lost it, diving at the woman until they were both on the ground. She scrambled out of his hold and brought a boot down on his crotch, making him turn his head and retch even as he tried to blink the stars from his eyes.

The supervisor came running back in and broke up the fight, sending Abaddon on her way and making sure his boys were alright before telling them to knock off early and head home. They supported each other on the stumble from the plant to their illegal tenement apartment. Sam helped Dean up the stairs, because the elevator was broken again, both of them giggling by the time they made it to their fifth floor loft. Sam dumped Dean onto the small bed closest to the door before he limped across to his own bed and sat down heavily to pull off his blood-stained boots.

“You need help?” Sam asked his brother, watching the tired and sore way he was moving; like a man much older than his actual age. Sam kept a close eye on his brother after he tugged off his boots and shirt. He stood to pop the button and fly on his jeans and when he looked up again, Dean still hadn’t moved. He moved to his brother’s side.

“My junk hurts.” Dean said, voice tinged with an hysterical giggle.

Sam bit back his own laugh as he helped Dean pull off his shirt and then went down to his knees to help Dean with his boots. He didn’t look up till he felt a heavy hand in his hair. Hazel blue eyes met green ones in a question.

“Look good down there on your knees little brother.” Dean sighed, curling his fingers and tugging gently at the roots of Sam’s overlong hair. Sam said nothing, but couldn’t tilt his head back down fast enough to fully hide the flush on his cheeks. He pulled the boots off his brother’s feet and followed with the socks before he stood again and extended a hand, pulling Dean with him over to the open shower area at the other end of the room.

He turned on the water, hoping it would warm up enough for them to get clean. They dropped their jeans and shorts on the area of floor that would stay mostly dry before stepping under the spray.

There was an undercurrent of sexual tension as they showered, side by side under the lukewarm spray, but never touching. Sam savored the feeling of it and the closeness of his gorgeous brother. He knew that when it happened, if it finally ever happened, Dean would have to be the one to start it. Dean would initiate it and Sam would be the one to step up and finish it.

Showered and dubiously clean, they dried off as best they could with the threadbare towels hanging on the wall and pulled on the only clean clothes they had. March in Boston was notoriously unforgiving so they pulled on their peacoats and matching scarves that had been a gift from their long-deceased mother. She said their father, who vanished when they were babies, had gotten the scarves for them long ago in their family tartan. Those and the family rosaries that they wore under their clothing every day were the only things that remained from their parents.

They left their cold, sad loft and headed towards Singer’s for the Saint Patrick’s day celebration. Bobby, the owner, bartender and friend was waiting for them with shots. A large cheer went up from the small group assembled when they arrived. It wasn’t much later when Cas arrived and the group was complete.

Sam and Dean went to the door to take Cas’ hat and coat as he yelled over at Bobby “Hey, fuck-ass, gimme a beer” to the amusement of all the drunk people there. Bobby had the unfortunate luck to have tourettes and a knack for creating malaphors that kept his loyal patrons in stitches for hours.

“Listen Boys, I have some bad news. The Russians are taking up large blocks of...fuck!...ass! property from those that c-c-can’t pay them and I’m gonna have to close down th-th-the bar.” The mood instantly dimmed. Sam and Dean were the first ones to lean across the bar, those two being the most sober of the group.

“There’s got to be something we can do.” They said in unison. Cas jumped up from his chair, waving his hands in the air.

“Lemme talk to my boss…” Before he could finish the thought the rest of the group was shouting him down; the only thing worse than losing the bar to the Russian Mob would be involving Don Lucifer from the Yakavetta Family. No one wanted the bar to turn into the spot for another battle in the ongoing mob war of Boston’s Mafia.

Castiel had worked for Don Lucifer’s family since he was fifteen. He ran numbers, fetched lunch and was mostly an expendable peon. He was the only Italian in their group of Irish boys but he’d been adopted into the little Irish family by the Winchester brothers after he jumped into a bar fight and helped them when they’d all been a few years shy of 21. They knew just how expendable he was to the Yakavetta family and didn’t want him sticking his neck out or getting any more attention than he already did.

It was at that moment, when they’d all settled down to think, that the door flew open with a crack and three large men walked into the dark little bar. Sam and Dean looked the men over closely as they stepped into the room and stood behind the line of men at the bar. The largest of the three stepped forward.

“I am Zachariah Checkov and you vill be leaving now.”

Sam looked over at Dean to catch his eye and when he saw Dean’s smirk he mentally began to prepare for a fight.

“Well this here is McCoy… if we can find ourselves a Spock we have enough for an away team.” The assembled Irish boys laughed as Zachariah grew visibly more angry. He lifted a fat hand and pointed at Bobby behind the bar.

“You vill stay. The rest will leave.” He was clearly someone that expected to be obeyed and when no one made a move to follow his imperious orders he cracked his knuckles threateningly.

Sam stood, hands up in front of him. “Look, it’s Saint Patty’s day. Can’t we all just have a drink in peace? You can even join us.” From behind him, he heard Bobby pipe up and forced himself not to wince.

“Why don’t you make like a tree and get the f-f-fuck outta here.” The Irishmen groaned as the Russians stood, immobile, and continued to wait for obeisance.

Sam and Dean each reached for their shots, waiting on the bar, and downed them as one. Then, holding each other’s eyes, they reached for their pints and walked towards the Russians.

Dean spoke first, “Look, guys, we don’t want to fight. It’s a celebration day.” He started, taking an innocuous sip and one step forward as Sam mirrored him to his right.

“Everyone is Irish on Saint Patty’s. Have a drink with us.”

Chekov sneered at them, folding his arms across his chest. “I said, get out or we remove you.” 

Sam and Dean took a drink in unison before tossing their beers in Chekov’s companions’ faces and racing forward. Sometimes fists were the only way to settle things.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

Senior FBI Agent Crowley got out of the back of the Boston PD cruiser at the end of the alleyway. A patrolman pointed to where the Chief was waiting and he strolled that way, stopping for introductions after the caution tape was lifted for him to pass beyond.

“You’ll be working with three of my guys that are familiar with the area and any roadblocks that you’re likely to come up against. Don’t let them fool you, they’re good cops just a little rough around the edges.” Crowley nodded and silently took a long drag off his cigarette.

“You’ve got Jody Mills, Donna Hanscum and Adam Milligan. Adam is - “ the Chief was cut off by the sound of loud pontificating. He scowled and Crowley guessed that the person speaking was this Milligan person. He held his finger to his lips and they stood far enough away to escape notice but close enough to hear what was being said.

A young blonde man was gesticulating wildly, pointing from one dead body to the other while standing in a pile of shattered porcelain and trash bags.

“Okay, let’s try this one on for size. These two guys are fighting it out, I mean really wailing on each other.” He gestures to the bandages on the head of one and the ass of the other’s pants. “And some even bigger fuckin guy, talking like 3-400 hundred pounds, comes up and crushes them both with some sink that was sittin’ in the dumpster and takes off with their stuff.” He sniffs and rolls his shoulders to relax them after all the arm waving.

“Yeah, I’m thinking this is something big here. I wouldn’t be shocked to see a whole lot more of these cropping up.”

The brunette, short haired cop yelled over, “How does that explain the bandages, Millie?”

Milligan sneered. “Okay, fine. So these two are stumblin’ home drunk after enjoyin’ Saint Patty’s a little too much, you know a little too much “too-rah loo-rah” and the giant guy comes along and crushes the fuck outta what he sees as an easy mark, since they’re already all beat to fuck. Kills them and rolls them.”

Crowley steps forward. “That’s great, so we now have two theories and both of them involve some giant serial crusher. That’s brilliant detective work, really.” 

Milligan turns with a sneer. “And who the fuck are you?”

“This is who the fuck I am.” Crowley flips open his badge with the clear FBI lettering, showing it first to Milligan and then the other two police he’d been talking with. “What’s your name?”

“Captain, what the fuck?” 

The Chief ignores the question from Milligan and gestures to the brunette, who is Mills, and the blonde, who is Hanscum, before confirming Crowley’s speculation that the youngest one is Milligan.

“Sorry guys but I gotta play this one by the books. Both of these guys came back Russian Mob so we had to bring in the FBI. This is Special Agent Crowley and he’s now in charge of this investigation. You defer to him like you’d defer to me. Don’t-” The Chief pauses, turning to look at each of them in turn. “Don’t fuck this up and make us look bad. He has our full cooperation.” With that, the chief turns and walks away without another word, ignoring the way that Milligan is running his mouth.

“What the fuck?” Milligan asks again.

“I think I’d like a coffee.” Crowley drawled, taking his time looking around the scene and at the two bodies.

“The-I’m not-” Milligan sputtered.

“Cafe latte.”

“The fuck?”

“With a twist of lemon and sweet and low.” Crowley gestured to the street at the end of the alleyway.

“I’m not your fuckin coffee boy.” Milligan scowled again but he was used to being the low man on the totem pole due to his age and was starting to march away.

“There’s a good boy.” Crowley pulled his earbuds out of his pocket and queued up his favorite piece of music on his iPod before slipping into a pair of latex gloves and crouching down to examine the scene more closely.

Hanscum and Mills followed him at a distance, keeping their peace as he worked. He appreciated that. He kicked over some of the scattered garbage bags to get closer to the bodies. He examined the powder burns on the hand of the taller one and his eyes scanned the scene for the wayward gun and potential bullet holes. He picked up a piece of the porcelain to try and puzzle out what it could be from. By the time Milligan returned with his coffee, he had an idea. He pulled the buds from his ears and stripped off his gloves. 

Turning towards the two remaining patrolmen, he began speaking. “I need you in this building and you in this one. Go door to door and find someone with a flood in their apartment. Mills? There’s a bullet hole in the brick of that building but there’s no gun, so whoever killed these two men did take some things. This one has a tan line from a watch but no watch as well. We need to check local pawn shops.” When he finished, he took the coffee from Milligan and took a long sip, waiting for questions. No one spoke until one of the patrolmen returned.

“This is all illegal tenement lofts but I got a lady on the fourth floor that says water has been dripping down her wall all morning.”

Crowley turned with a smile for his detectives. “Then I guess we are heading to the fifth.” They pile into the building and onto the elevator. As the doors close, Hanscum speaks up. 

“So what are you thinking here?”

Crowley smirks, “Do you really want to know?”

All three nod.

“This is not a gang assassination. It’s creative, I’ll give them that, but it’s sloppy. There was a fight. From the fifth floor something was dropped onto the heads of our two mafioso comrades, I’m thinking a toilet. We are looking for two men, very probably seriously injured in their own right, who were fighting for their lives.” The elevator dings and Hansum steps forward to pull open the large doors.

MIlligan opens his mouth again. “No fuckin’ way. Guy would have to be huge to be able to do something like that.”

Crowley turns to him, for a moment ignoring the rush of the water coming from the loft nearby.

“I think I’ll be wanting a bagel with my coffee.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------

After the fight with the Russians, Sam and Dean leave their friends and stumble home with their blood pumping and their adrenaline high. They’re knocking into each other in the elevator, smiling and their touches linger more than either of them would usually allow. By the time they’re pushing the door shut to the loft, they’re buzzed on each other more than the alcohol and the fight.

Sam pushes Dean down onto his bed and goes to his knees in front of his brother again, unlacing his boots and helping to pull them off. Fingers thread into his hair and this time he can’t bite back the groan. His head is yanked backwards so that he can look up into his brother’s face.

“Look even better in a fight than you do on your knees, little brother.” There’s that tone again, combined with the Irish accent they’d inherited from their Ma despite never having actually been to Ireland.

“Dean, please.” They both know what he’s asking for. He’s asking for them to stop teasing each other. He’s asking to finally end the sweet torture of the tension they’ve shared for years now. There is no one on the planet better for Sam than Dean and no one better for Dean than Sam.

Dean is leaning down, about to finally press their lips together when the door is kicked open and two angry Russians covered in blood and bandages barge inside.

The Winchesters have no guns. They have nothing in their cramped tenement that could pass for a weapon. They have their fists, but they’re overpowered before either of them could get a decent punch in.

“I think, as an example, I take this one into the alley and shoot him in the head.” Chekov is gripping Sam by the hair, hard enough that tears are dripping from the corners of his eyes. 

Dean feels his stomach drop as the other one kicks him in the stomach and drags him over to the toilet, handcuffing him to the base of it.

He screams for his brother as Sam is pulled from the room, crying and trying to fight back.  Adrenaline can cause the human body to do amazing things. At the thought of his beautiful brother’s fearful face, streaked with tears, Dean gets his legs under him. He shifts his position under the toilet and grips at the cuffs as he pulls, yanking at the toilet to pull it up from the drain. He pulls and pulls for what seems like forever, but as long as he has not heard a gunshot, he keeps going. His wrists are bleeding, causing the metal cuffs to slip in his grasp but he’s finally able to pull the toilet loose from its base. Water pours from the bottom of the loose tank as he stands up and heads out the door so that he can get to the roof access.

Each step is torture, his arms are on fire and he can barely feel his hands, but he keeps going. Soon, he’s standing on the roof, looking five stories down at the tableau before him. Sam is on his knees, Chekov and the other bruiser standing over him. Even from this distance in the early morning light, Dean can see the glint of metal in Chekov’s hand; his gun. He doesn’t think. He barely aims. Using the last of the strength in his arms, he flips the toilet off the side of the building so that it lands square on Chekov’s head. He spares a heartbeat to see that Sam is mostly unharmed when he jumps himself, aiming to land with his booted feet in the back of the other mobster’s back. 

The last thing he remembers is the feeling of Sam’s hands, gentle on his face, and Sam’s voice in his ear telling him that everything will be okay.

Dean comes to in the hospital. His wounds are bandaged but he hurts all over. His first thought is for Sam but before he can panic, Sam’s face swims into view. 

“You’re okay. We’re okay. All checked out. I called Bobby, he’s on the way to spring us.” Dean looks over and sees a crumpled birthday gift bag next to Sam’s thigh.

“I figured we should make it look like a robbery. Took their cash and watches and the guns. We’ll give it all to Bobby; he’ll know what to do with it.” They don’t have to wait long, but while they do they entertain a sick child in the next bed with simple sleight of hand magic tricks and the tamest knock-knock jokes they know.

“Boys!” Bobby’s voice rings out in the hallway and he hurries towards them as they settle back into the bed they’d been sharing, sitting close enough that their thighs touch.

“B-b-boys, I’m so glad you’re alright. FBI came to the b-b-bar...FUCK! ASS! And gave me this c-c-card.” They exchange the bag of stolen valuables for the FBI agent’s card.

“Hide this for us? Don’t sell it, they’re probably looking for it.” Sam says, looking over at his brother to gauge his opinion.

“What are you boys going to do?” Bobby asks, panic still evident in his voice though he can see they’re okay. Sam is shocked when Dean answers before he can.

“Turn ourselves in. It was self-defense, wasn’t it?”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crowley paced across the end of the squad room, glaring at the assembled cops and waving his arms in exasperation.

“Firstly, I’d like to thank whichever of you donut munching idiots leaked this to the press. Now we have a media frenzy about these two and the likelihood we will ever catch them is decreasing by the second. Perhaps they’ll turn themselves in, since they’re being hailed as ‘angels’ by most of the local press but I doubt it. Even the simplest person knows that you don’t kill mafioso and get away with it.”

Unsurprisingly, it’s Milligan that speaks up from his desk next. “These guys are long gone. You wanna keep wasting your time, you can tie a potato on a string and trail it through some neighborhoods in Southie but we ain’t never solving this case. Thanks for comin’ out.” As he finishes speaking, there’s a commotion behind Crowley and he turns to see what’s going on.

Two men, barely older than boys, are standing behind him just inside the open door. They’re both wounded, wearing hospital gowns, and holding each other up.

“I think you’d have more luck with a beer than a potato.” The taller one says.

Crowley feels his face break into a beatific grin and he swivels to address the squad room at large. “I believe Milligan was going to go and get coffee, who needs one?”

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sam and Dean find themselves escorted into an interrogation room after giving their first statements. They sit close together on one side of the table with the two-way mirror behind their backs. It makes both of them twitchy but they conceal it by smoking and sipping at the piss poor coffee they’d been given. Crowley enters the room and shuts the door behind him, taking a seat quickly. He has a friendly smile on his face.

“I want you both to know you aren’t under arrest. You came in under your own free will and it’s clear from your injuries and the statement from the doctors at the hospital that it was self-defense. I just have a few follow-up questions.” He puts a voice recorder on the table between them and clicks it on.

Sam lets out a huge breath of smoke and says nothing; he’s waiting for Dean to take the lead. Dean starts speaking out of the corner of his mouth; in Russian.

_ “Мы придерживаемся правды?” (Are we sticking with the truth?).” _

_ “я думаю, что да” (I think so, yes).” _

They stop speaking as Crowley leans across the table. “What language is that?”

Dean laughs slightly as he answers, then switches smoothly to Gaelic.

_ “Rinne iad a n-iompar ar na rudaí luachmhara? (Bum rolled them for the valuables?).’ _

_ “Yes, níl muid ag iarraidh breathnú cosúil le thieves (Yes, we don’t want to look like thieves).” _ Sam replies again as he and Dean converse through language after language.

“That’s pretty incredible. How many languages do you two speak?” 

_ “Non sembra una minaccia. (He doesn’t seem like a threat).”  _ Sam offers before taking a large sip of weak coffee.”Well, six, I think. That was Russian, Gaelic and Italian.” He adds before Dean can speak again.

_ “Encore. Mieux vaut vous garder en sécurité, peu importe quoi. _ That was French.” ( _ Still, Better to keep you safe no matter what).” _ Dean tacks on to Crowley’s delight.

“You two should go on tour, this is amazing watching you.” He reaches for the recorder and clicks it off and Sam has a moment of fear that he is going to have their words translated. He carefully doesn’t look at Dean as he shifts his leg to brush against his brother’s. He gets a long, slow rub of Dean’s hairy calf against his own in reply.

“Well, look. I just wanted an official statement here.” Crowley clicks on the recorder again and Sam lets Dean tell the story.

“We got into a bar fight and won. Apparently they held a grudge and followed us home. All we wanted to do was live, yanno?” Dean stubs out his cigarette and waits for any more follow-up questions.

“Did you see anyone around after you got away? We noticed some things missing from the scene.” Crowley asks with no hint of any trap in his tone.

“Bum must’a come along and rolled them after we left. This one was unconscious and bleeding all over when it was all done. All I wanted to do was get him to the hospital.” Crowley nodded as though this is exactly what he expected to hear. Before he could open his mouth again, there was a knock on the door and it opened.

A young police woman opened the door. “Hey, there’s a bunch of reporters and stuff outside. They must have heard you were here.” Sam felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up; he didn’t want to have anything to do with any reporters. Crowley stood up.    
“I’ll take care of it, unless you boys want to…” He trailed off watching them for a reaction and nodding when they both shook their heads no. “Okay. Is there someone you can call for some clean clothes? Might take a while while we give a press conference and get rid of the media vultures.”

“Yeah, yeah, we got a buddy who can bring our stuff. But we don’t have anywhere to go after…” Dean trailed off, thinking of their trashed loft and the fact that he’d never be able to go back there again without thinking of Sam being dragged out to the alley with a gun to his head. Sam nudged a knee against his, as if to say “I’m still here”.

“We got an empty holding cell, if you wanna stay here,” The young cop added excitedly, then seemed to remember his place and looked at Crowley for approval.

Crowley cocked out a hip and tossed his head as though he were flipping hair out of his face. “Well it’s okay with me if your friends wanna sleep over, but you should probably check with your mommy.” He sassed before sweeping out of the room without another word.

Sam and Dean each lit up another cigarette and smoked slowly, waiting for access to the phone so they could call Cas to bring them whatever meager clothes were left behind at the loft. Their legs were still rubbing together.

Cas was quick to stop by, bringing them each a change of clothes, their rosaries and a cellphone that must have been confused with their things when they gave the items stolen from the Russians to Bobby. Sam tosses it onto the bed nearest him as he strips off the soiled clothes and bathrobe left over from their visit to the hospital. Cas says very little before leaving; working for the Italian mob for so long has given him a distinct and healthy distrust of police stations.

In the middle of the night, the sounds of a thunderstorm clear in the cell they’ve been sleeping in, the brothers wake in unison with a gasp. They turn towards each other.

“Destroy all that is evil.” Dean begins.

“So that all that is good may flourish.” Sam finishes for him. 

With identical grim expressions, they sit up fully and pull on their boots and tee-shirts. They stand between the beds, chest to chest. Dean lifts his arms and curls them around Sam’s torso, crushing his brother to him.

“Nothing is worth losing you.” He whispers into Sam’s ear. Sam says nothing but curls his hands into Dean’s hips above the waist of his jeans in silent agreement. There is no good for Sam without Dean. There is nothing worth saving for Dean without Sam. Dean tilts his head and brushes his lips across Sam’s.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the morning, the police treat the brothers to coffee and donuts before they leave. The nearly forgotten cell phone in Dean’s pocket buzzes with a new notification and he steps away from the assembled police to check the information.

It’s a time and location for a meet up and Dean realizes that this is it. Time to put what they’d discussed the night before to the test. When they leave, they head to Bobby’s to pick up the money, watches and jewelry they’d stashed with him and then head to the back-room of a warehouse in Southie.

They trade the ill-gotten goods for two duffel bags of guns, bullets and other weapons. Dean grabs a length of military grade climbing rope and Sam gives him shit for it, stopping only when Dean delicately clasps the Rambo knife out of his duffel with a sarcastic comment. They leave after some bickering and head back to Bobby’s, where they find the long-unused backroom cleared and cleaned up. They haven’t spoken since leaving the warehouse but Sam has been shooting hungry looks at his brother all day and Dean’s skin feels alive with it. He purses his lips.

“After.” He says simply, making sure they both have the ski-masks and gloves they’d picked up on a whim. Sam stands up and steps close enough that his breath is stirring the hair on the back of Dean’s neck. He places his hands lightly on Dean’s hips.

“Before. Right now.” He pulls Dean back into him, grinding his hips forward at the same time. “If it all goes tits up… I want to know this first.” He’s barely breathing, waiting for some signal from Dean. They know this is okay; they can both feel it. What else could they ever have been but everything for each other.

“We can’t go into it thinking about that. We can’t think… it’s going to be just right and then we can come here and celebrate it.” Dean’s muscles don’t exactly soften, but he allows himself to lean back into Sam a bit more. “Anticipation, Sammy. A reason to come through alright. A reason to keep going.”

Sam drops his forehead to Dean’s shoulder in acceptance. He knows his brother is right but there’s such a fierce thrumming of WANT coursing through his body, it’s hard to let it go. With gritted teeth, he grinds his hips forward again into the plumpness of Dean’s ass and steps backwards, his fingers lingering on Dean’s hips before slipping off and falling to his sides.

“But… we can have this.” Dean spins quickly and steps close to Sam, pulling his head down into a forceful kiss, all teeth and tongue. Sam melts into his brother, his entire body begging for more as blood rushes into his cock.

With a lingering lick to the roof of Sam’s mouth, it’s Dean’s turn to step backwards. Both men are panting, chests heaving with breath and cocks clearly hard in their worn jeans. Dean licks his lips over and over as though he’s trying to get every single bit of Sam’s taste inside of him before they let the moment go.

“After, deartháir beag, tabharfaidh mé gach rud duit. (little brother, I will give you everything).”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crowley walks into the penthouse suite of the Prudential building and takes in the massacre before him. He sees Mills, Hanscum and Milligan along with nearly a dozen uniformed cops cataloguing the scene. He wanders slowly, lighting up a cigarette as he goes, and counts the bodies, noting the pennies on the eyes of each dead man in the room. 

There’s something chaotic to the whole scene, yet the pennies reflect forethought and planning. He sees a broken ceiling tile with tangled rope and can’t stop the laugh that bubbles out of his mouth. 

“Milligan, how many bodies are there?”

“Eight.” Crowley raises his eyebrows and pointedly looks at the body hidden from view behind the couch.

“Nine! Shit, I didn’t see that one!” Milligan whines, his hands slapping against his thighs in frustration.

“While Milligan is out picking up lunch for me, does anyone else want anything?” Crowley asked the room, unsurprised to find no one taking him up on the offer. He sighed. He offered up his initial assessment; the chaos and planning. The ridiculousness of the scene seeming like something out of a movie where the shooters dropped out of the ceiling.

“Does anyone have any interesting comments or questions?” He asked warily as he stubbed out his cigarette and posed by the bar.

“Do we know what’s with the pennies on the eyes?” Mills asked.

Hanscum piped up with, “What’s the symbology of that?”

Crowley felt another bubble of laughter but held it back. They were trying, they were stupid, but they were trying.

“Ssssssssymbolism. I believe the word you were looking for is symbolism. Maybe it’s to pay Charon, the ferryman of the dead. Some cultures believed that you had to pay the ferryman to cross over to the underworld, where you would be judged for your deeds while living.” He paused, raising a finger to his lips as he thought about it.

“So, you think there’s some kinda religious aspect, here?” Mills asked again. He looked up at her sharply. He’d have to watch her.

“I don’t know. These guys seem like amateurs, to me. The movie scene crashing through the ceiling, the tangled rope. The messy shots. One of these guys was killed with a pro twist; the double tap to the back of the head.” He pointed towards the body in the center of the room.

“The fag-man.” Hanscum supplied helpfully before all the color drained from her face. “The fat man. Fat man.” She said, scared of his response.

“Hmmm, well, I guess Freud was right. Regardless, the rest of this, there’s too many mixed signals here. I don’t know. But there’s two options: total professionals or complete amateurs.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sam wanted to tell Cas, as soon as they’d realized what his employer had tried to do to him, but Dean held him back. Cas had shown up at that hotel room on orders from the Don himself to kill everyone in the room; problem was, he’d had a single gun with six bullets and there had been nine men there. Yakavetta had never intended for Castiel to leave that suite alive.

Their celebration, such as it was, at Cas’ apartment was subdued for Sam because of that and one other reason. He couldn’t help but think about the celebration Dean had promised him. The one where they would give each other everything. Sam didn’t really want or need Cas there for that.

So he smoked and drank and laughed as much as he could while he took solace in the heat of Dean’s thigh pressed up against his own. Cas begged them to let him help with their vigilante justice. 

“I know all the guys to hit. I been part of that fuckin family since I was a kid and never more than some package boy. You gotta let me help. I know everyone’s routines. I know how they think. I know which ones sleep with a gun under their pillows and when they ditch their wives to go to the titty bar.”

Dean wanted to keep Cas as far away from what they were doing as he could, Sam could tell. Sam felt the same, though he could see how helpful Cas could be. They could take out some of the worst ones. The contract killers. The sadistic fuckers who liked little kids. They could do something more than slaughtering random guys in a hotel room, ones that didn’t even have a foothold in their neighborhoods yet. He held his tongue; his time to speak up about it would come later.

Cas convinced them to hit the Don’s right-hand man the next day. Azazel was a real piece of work who had a fondness for peep-shows and ridiculing Castiel. The brothers knew it would be a good hit, to get rid of the Don’s number two man, but they also knew that Cas had a score to settle.

The dancer passed out with fear when they let themselves into her booth. It was a short matter to eliminate Azazel, lifting the screen that separated him from the dancer’s booth and shooting him twice in the head. Dean pulls pennies from his pocket and Sam stands next to him, shoulder to shoulder, so they can say their prayer.

"And Shepherds we shall be for thee, my Lord, for thee. Power hath descended forth from  **Thy** hand, our feet may swiftly carry out  **Thy** commands. So we shall flow a river forth to Thee And teeming with souls shall it ever be. In Nomeni Patri Et Fili Spiritus Sancti."

Cas stands near the naked dancer with his mouth hanging open.

“You guys gotta teach me that prayer.” He begs as Dean steps back through the shattered glass after placing pennies on Azazel’s eyes.

“Sorry man, it’s a family prayer.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lucifer stands his ground next to Metatron, waiting for the old man to stop giving him shit about how he’s let the family down and screwed over anyone that ever took care of him.

“Listen, uncle, are you going to help me or not?” He finally cuts in, annoyed.

Metatron turns milky-white eyes towards him but Lucifer doesn’t flinch when he feels the penetrating gaze.

“We need Il Duce.” The milky eyes go wide with shock.

“What the fuck did you do?”

“There’s this kid, this peon package boy that has enough information to take down the entire east coast and he’s taking us out one by fucking one. Il Duce is the only solution.”

Metatron eases himself down onto a chair. “That sadistic son of a bitch was not easy for your father and I to catch and get in jail. He’s in max, you know.” Lucifer waves off the concern about federal prison airily.

“There are ways around that. Will he do it?” His only concern is stopping Castiel before it can go any farther. He will not allow the family to be taken down by some peon package boy.

“Oh, he will do it and happily too. Well, as happy as a man like him can be. He hates our kind; hates Italians and Family even more than that. You better be serious about this. He’s like a mad dog off a leash. He’ll get your package boy, but he might take out most of the family before you can kill him.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sam is done with waiting. His body burns for Dean’s touch. Cas hasn’t let them out of his sight for three days and Sam is ready to start tearing out his hair. He knows it’s safer for them to hide together, but he doesn’t care. 

He cares about the looks that Dean keeps giving him. About the closecloseclose way Dean keeps standing. About the way that Dean’s breath feels on the back of his neck when he’s speaking over Sam’s shoulder and the way his hand seems to burn through Sam’s clothes. 

In the morning after the strip club, Castiel mumbles something about having something he needs to do. He waves the brothers’ concern off and leaves them, telling them he will meet up with them about five.

Sam’s first feeling is relief; alone time with Dean. To pick up where they left off. To have what Dean promised him. To finally get what they’ve been denying themselves for all these years. His second feeling is urgency. There’s just so much that he wants to do. They have to find a spot to be alone and they have to find it right away.

He bustles Dean into his clothes and they walk to the nearest Dunkin for some coffee and breakfast. He looks at Dean’s sleepy and still gorgeous face across the tiny bistro table and lets all the desire, all the longing and all the love he has for his brother show clearly on his face. Then he clears his throat to get Dean’s attention.

The first thing he sees is shock, then wariness; Dean is not a demonstrative person and wouldn’t like to share everything that Sam is showing to the world. But then, after a moment of eye contact, Dean’s pupils dilate. His eyelids droop seductively and he licks his lips as he stares at Sam’s.

“We have something we needed to do today too, didn’t we?” Sam asks shortly, stretching his long legs out under the table and deliberately knocking his foot into Dean’s.

“Yeah, Sammy, I think there is something we need to do today.  _ An riachtanas is gá duit anois, deartháir beag. An riachtanas is gá duit féin. (Need you now, little brother. Need you alone).” _ All the languages they speak, Dean could pick any of them and still have more privacy than they have while speaking English, but he knows what the Gaelic does to his brother.

Dean knows exactly how that soft, lilting brogue gets his brother even more hot and bothered than anything else. What he doesn’t know is that it’s a show of intelligence that he usually downplays and it makes Sam’s heart race. Sam loves Dean body, soul and mind. Sam nearly spills his coffee as he stands up too fast and heads for the door.

They catch a cab to the Boston Motel, cheap and too seedy for anyone to ask questions, not that they would care if anyone did. Sam has eyes for no one but Dean and misses the speculative looks from the barely-legal teen behind the check-in counter who takes their money or the way she turns to whisper to someone in the office as they’re leaving.

The tension is so thick that Sam feels like he’s choking when they finally step into the room and Dean shuts, then deadbolts the door behind them. Trying to rein in his thundering heartbeat, Sam steps over to the bed nearest the door and pulls off his coat, slowly unwrapping the scarf from his neck. He leans down to unlace his boots when he feels Dean come up behind him. Dean’s hands grip at his hips and his crotch presses to Sam’s ass.

Sam can feel that Dean is already hard.

He wiggles his hips, trying to goad Dean into moving faster but he knows it won’t work. Dean is determined to take his time. He holds still and encourages Sam to finish removing his boots without words. His hands move only slightly, so that they’re gripping the skin of Sam’s waist above his belt and Sam bites back a whimper as he thinks of all the things those hands are going to be doing to him. Sam’s head is swimming when he finally stands back up, but other than lifting his feet out of his boots to place socked feet on the floor, Dean doesn’t let him move.

“Dean I wanna… I wanna see your face. Wanna-” Dean’s hand moves away from his waist just enough that Sam can spin in his brother’s embrace.

“ _ Mo chailín. Mo ach amháin. _ (My sweetheart. My only),” Dean whispers and to Sam it feels like his undoing. He presses forwards, tilting his head down and to the left, his body begging for the kiss that his words can not. Dean has stolen the words from him.

Dean, who is so tender as he presses his lips to Sam’s. Dean, who exhales through his nose and issues a sound from his throat that is so soft, Sam is certain he wasn’t meant to hear it, but he did, and it hits him like a fist in the stomach.

Sam is the larger of the two and in this moment, he hates it. He wants his brother to consume him. He wants his brother to cover him and smother him and make it so that Sam’s whole world is Dean in a way that it never has been before. Sam falls backwards onto the bed, pulling Dean with him, unwilling to lose contact for even the space of a heart beat.

While they are lying on the bed the kiss intensifies, Dean’s tongue sweeping across Sam’s lip before pressing into Sam’s mouth. Their tongues slide slickly together and Sam wraps his long arms around Dean’s back and pulls him impossibly close, hating even the few layers of threadbare clothing that separates them. He pulls out of the kiss to voice this thought but Dean, as always, is one step ahead of him.

Dean sits up on his knees, straddling Sam’s waist and divests them both their shirts. He presses back down for a kiss, both of them reveling in the skin contact between their chests. Sam can already feel sweat pooling in the dip of his throat and tickling the sparse hair on his chest as Dean rubs against him like a cat.

His hands move from Dean’s waist to his ass, squeezing the firm muscles there and causing Dean to rock his hips, pressing their cocks together.

“ _ Eadaí as anois _ (Clothes off now).” Sam commands when he finds his voice, as shocked as Dean to find that he’d spoken in Gaelic as well. Dean gasps when he hears Sam’s voice, his fingers scrabbling at the fly of his jeans to pop the button and pull down the zipper. The next few minutes are a blur of flailing limbs, laughter and flying clothes until finally they are back where they started, sans clothes.

Dean looks cautious and fearful as he straddles Sam’s waist. There’s no modesty between them; long before either of them knew this was where they’d end up, they'd changed together. But there is a difference between looking at someone naked and looking at someone in the nude when you are becoming lovers. A difference between seeing someone’s body and being able to appreciate that same body. 

Sam gazes up at his brother and sees the delicate beauty that Dean tries to keep hidden. His pale skin with freckles, so numerous that they could never all be counted and catalogued, despite how long Sam would be willing to devote to the act. The pale pink of his nipples and the way that his body hair is so fine and downy that it’s barely there at all in some places. He sees the thick brown curls at the base of Dean’s cock. That pretty pink cock he’s seen hard and leaking before but never been able to touch. Never been invited to touch before. He can’t think of anything he wants more and so he does. He wraps his hand around the girth of Dean’s cock, reveling in the sharp gasp that it elicits from his brother.

He loves the way it’s so wet at the head. The way that the pink of it gets deeper and deeper in color from the base to the tip. Loves the way it fits in his hand as though his hand (which arrived on this planet mere minutes after Dean) was created just for him.

“Sammy,  _ deartháir beag. le do thoil _ (little brother, please).” Sam is certain that Dean isn’t sure what he’s asking for but it’s okay; Sam knows. Sam knows what Dean wants and needs and Sam is going to take care of him. With one swift move, he rolls them over, until he’s on top of Dean and pressing his weight down. He grips at Dean’s thighs and presses them as up and open as they can get without causing pain. Then, Sam finds that he has to stop and look up into Dean’s face to make sure this is okay. It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask, but he doesn’t need to. The answer is written clearly in the look on Dean’s face: heat and love and want all wrapped up together. It’s written in the way that Dean grabs his legs at the knees and holds himself open for Sam.

“ _ Rud ar bith. Gach rud. Báire _ (Anything. Everything. Sweetheart.).” With those words, Sam is done hesitating. He’s done waiting and second guessing. This was always where their relationship was going to go and he no longer cares how long it took for them to get there because they’re finally here.

Sam presses a kiss to the wet head of Dean’s cock where it lay weeping against the soft skin of Dean’s belly, so hard that it twitches with the smallest touch. He trails kisses down the bottom of the shaft to the base and then opens his mouth and pulls each one of Dean’s balls into it. Dean’s whole body trembles with the effort of keeping still and waiting for Sam’s next move. Sam is intoxicated even more by the way Dean lets him take this.

“Sammy.” The gasp is heavy with passion but not enough for Sam to stop what he’s doing, kissing and licking over the sensitive area behind Dean’s balls. His nose is squished into the skin almost uncomfortably but it tastes so good. Dean’s skin and the rasp of hair against his tongue. The smell of his sweat and arousal overwhelming Sam’s senses. Sam moves even lower, till his tongue is pressing between Dean’s cheeks and just over the wrinkled skin of his hole.

Dean is whining and trembling so badly that Sam is having a difficult time staying where he is. He pushes on Dean’s thigh, making his brother curl up even further on the bed and exposing his ass more fully. Sam supports Dean’s thighs on his shoulders so that he can pull open Dean’s ass and open up his hole to more touches.

“Oh fuck, Sammy.  _ Oh tá. Ithe mo asal. Oscail dom ar do shon. _ (oh yes. Eat my ass. Open me up for you.).” With a plea like that, Sam could no longer resist. He eats at Dean’s hole like it’s his last meal. There’s sweat and spit all over his face but the enticing clutch of Dean’s hole around his tongue and the tip of his middle finger keeps him diving back in for more every time he has to pull back for a breath.

It’s no time at all that Sam realizes he has three fingers knuckle deep inside his brother, the way smoothed only by copious amounts of his own saliva. His tongue is tired but he can’t stop. He needs to be inside of his brother all the time. They need to be one. He sits up on his knees and jacks his cock, smearing saliva and precome up and down the length of it as he looks at Dean and sees the extent of the pink flush on his skin.

“ _ Anois anois anois, ná déan dom fanacht deartháir níos faide.  _ (Now now now don’t make me wait any longer brother).” Dean’s head is tossing back and forth on the pillow, his eyes heavy lidded, nearly closed with lust.

Sam takes himself in hand, shuddering to keep himself from coming, and ruts forward. The wet head of his cock catches on the second thrust and he grunts to try and keep his body in check. He doesn’t think they’ve prepped enough and they’ve used no lube; he couldn’t bear it if he hurt his brother. A tense few seconds pass as he presses forward into the tight ring of muscle. Dean’s eyes are wide now, but unseeing, and Sam can tell he’s gritting his teeth to avoid whimpering in pain or pulling away. He grunts when he finally pops through the tight ring of muscles and moves his hands to his own hips to keep himself still. 

Dean is having none of that; he wraps his legs around Sam’s waist, hooking his ankles together and pulling Sam forward, buried all the way to the hilt, in one endless movement. Sam is panting by the time his hips are crushed against Dean’s ass and he can barely breathe. Dean looks wild beneath him, the flush even more pronounced, the sheen of sweat on his skin and the crazed look in his eyes.

“ _ Fuck dom. Tóg mise. Déan mise mise, deartháir beag  _ (Fuck me. Take me. Make me yours little brother.).” The words strip away any last lingering delay Sam has left. He pulls back and thrusts forward, loving the way that it makes Dean move beneath him; loving the sounds that Dean’s making. Sam loses what little brain he has left; he starts to take. He takes pleasure in Dean’s body. He carves out space for himself inside of Dean.

“ _ Níos mó níos mó ná Sammy níos tapúla  _ (More more more, faster Sammy).” Dean is panting, their bodies are coated with sweat and the whole action has taken on an ethereal quality. Sam pistons his hips, ignoring the cramp he feels in his calf and the one in his lower back. He fucks his hips forward hard, slamming Dean up the bed and loving the way that his balls feels as they slap against Dean’s cheeks.

Sam’s hand skitters and slips off Dean’s shoulder from all the sweat, swiping across Dean’s nipples and landing on his stomach. Dean twists and arches into the touch so Sam curls his hand around the head of Dean’s cock, never letting up in his thrusts. Sam shifts his legs around, switches his grip and flops onto his back on the cheap mattress.

“ _ Taisteal dom deartháir _ (Ride me brother).” Sam barely recognizes his own voice when it comes out of his throat, it’s so much deeper than normal. Dean whines and gets his feet under him, his thick thighs flexing as he pushes up till only the head of Sam’s cock is inside of him, then slams his body back down, filling himself to the hilt. Sam scrambles to hold onto Dean’s hips to help anchor him.

Looking up at his brother, he can see how close Dean is; his entire torso is flushed red with exertion. His nipples are tight points on his chest and his cock looks nearly purple in the low lighting of the room. He pulls his hand off Dean’s hip and grips his cock, loving the hot feel of it in his hand. He strokes lightly, tightening his grip and twisting his wrist when Dean whines through his teeth.

Dean doesn’t last much longer. He presses himself all the way down till his ass meets Sam’s hips and grinds his ass in a figure eight that makes Sam start to see stars. Sam forces his eyes to stay open as he feels Dean’s cock throb in his hands, jets of come pulsing out over his own stomach. He feels it fall, sticky and body-warm on his skin as he lets Dean’s orgasm draw out his own. Quickly, he moves his hands back to Dean’s waist and fucks upwards hard as Dean’s hole contracts around him. He buries himself as deep as he can go and comes thickly.

Dean sags like all the strength has gone out of him and falls forward onto Sam’s chest, the heaving for breath together.

“ _ Mo chroí. M'anam. Mo dheartháir _ (My heart. My soul. My brother).” Sam whispers into Dean’s sweaty ear and feels his brother shiver in reply. Dean doesn’t need to say it, Sam knows he feels the same. He, however, needed to say it aloud. Dean needed to hear it. It’s the closest he’s said to “I love you” since they were kids.

“ _ Mo dheartháir _ (my brother).” Dean sighs into Sam’s collarbone.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They’re relaxing and vaguely planning by the time Cas rejoins them in the back room of Bobby’s. Cas is wild around the eyes; frantic in a way that they aren’t used to their friend being. They try to calm him down, but something has happened and neither Sam nor Dean can make heads or tails of what Cas is telling them aside from they gotta fuckin’ pack their shit and go.

Once they’re in the car, Cas sticks his head between the two front seats and says he’s got another target.

“Real creepy fuckin guy. A cleaner. Dude kills everyone, women, children, who the fuck ever the Don tells him to. I know his home address and I know that he hosts a few gambinos over to his game room in the garage every Thursday night for pool and poker.” Sam and Dean trade a look between themselves; a mob killer? Even on a night where his guard is down, this will be no easy thing.

“How many guys?” Dean asks, his eyes never leaving Sam’s, an entire conversation passing between them silently as Cas fills them in on the details. Sam never nods and never says a word, but Dean can read the agreement on his face. He starts up the car.

“Tell me where we’re going.”

It’s a normal suburban neighborhood; no one would ever look twice at the cute white house with blue trim and think a soulless killer lived there. It’s not quite dinner time in the suburbs but they know they can’t risk being seen, so they drive a town over and eat in a diner to kill some time.

They check the clips on their guns before they head back, parking a block away and walking as inconspicuously as they can back towards the house. The wife is the gatekeeper, so they pull on their masks and tell her that she and the children can leave as soon as she lets them past the backyard security and into the garage-slash-gameroom. Dean catches Sam rolling his neck on his shoulders trying to ease some of the tension and it makes Dean grin.

The killing, the vengeance, the saving the world from scumbags thing they’ve started doing is a rush.

They burst through the door and catch the entire room off guard. Sam spares one single glance to make sure the wife was off and running before he’s headbutting his way into a fight with two guys by the pool table. He takes a cue-stick across his back and the pain makes him gasp and swear, but it invigorates him. He slams one guy’s head into the felt of the pool table and swings a leg back to kick at the other. He caught a glimpse of Dean, blood streaming from his nose as he put a bullet through one guy’s eye before he felt something grabbing at his foot and had to focus on his own fight again.

Someone had crawled under the pool table, Sam thought it might have been the guy he kicked back, and was trying to wrench his foot to break his ankle. He stomped on the guys hand as hard as he could, putting all two-hundred pounds of himself into it. He yanked his knife out from his waistband and jammed it into the neck of the guy whose face was mashed into the pool table before spinning around and dropping to the floor, reaching for the guy with the mangled, broken hand. Before he could reach the guy, a spray of red droplets hit his shoulder as the man’s head explodes with the force of a bullet. He turns to see Dean, a fierce look in his eye, as he pulled the trigger again and downed the man under the table.

Sam sagged with relief and tried not to think about all the blood he was covered with. Now that the adrenaline rush was over, he felt gross. Cas was off in the corner of the room, repeatedly stomping on what used to be the face of the owner of the house, the original target, and yelling “you sick fuck!” over and over again.

Once Dean was able to see that Sam was okay and help him to his feet, they both approached Cas, talking slowly and calmly and pulling him away from the destroyed body. They take the time to pray over the bodies, leaving pennies on their eyes as best they can considering the damage inflicted to most of them.

“C’mon. It’s the suburbs. Let’s get out of here.” Dean grunted nasally. The blood was still flowing from his nose and Sam could see how crooked it was but cleanup and first aid would have to wait until they were as far away as they could get. They headed out of the garage and through the backyard, choosing to exit out of the front door of the house in hopes that it would be less noticeable.

As soon as they stepped out of the front door, they noticed a man standing across the street, watching them. He was tall, as tall as Dean but not as tall as Sam. He had thick, dark hair on top of his head with a salt and pepper beard and he was dressed in black from head to toe. He looked up at them and Sam felt his heart stop. He knew this man meant to kill them. He grabbed Dean and ducked behind the pillar to his left, shouting at Cas to “get the fuck down” even as the first shots started ringing out.

It was never ending. One man, so many bullets. He wasn’t reloading clips. He just kept pulling more and more guns off the vest holster that had been hidden under his long black jacket. From the other side of the porch, he heard Cas start screaming and took action. Heedless of the neighborhood, he began to fire back wildly every time there was even a second’s pause in the gunfire from the man in black.

After a few minutes or maybe a few hours, Sam couldn’t tell, his ears began to ring with the silence that pervaded the street. He chanced a look around the pillar he and Dean were crouched behind but there was no sign of the man in black. Frantically, he pulled out the tiny spray bottle of ammonia he carried and began to cover all the blood splatter nearby and he could tell from Dean’s movements that he was doing the same. They found Cas, crouching in the bushes, swearing over and over and clutching at his blood covered hand.

“Fucking asshole shot off my fucking finger. Oh fuck oh fuck  _ il mio cazzo di dito  _ (my fucking finger)!” He screeched and Dean clamped a hand over his mouth.

“Fuckin’ forget it Cas. We gotta get the fuck outta here.” Dean pulled a protesting Cas towards the car while Sam brought up the rear. They piled in and peeled out and Dean was amazed that he never heard the sound of sirens behind them. He didn’t dare take a full breath until they were in Bobby’s with Sam pulling out the first aid kit to clean the wounds.

Cas’ entire pinky finger was shot off at the second knuckle. Dean caught Sam’s eye when they realized and without a word Sam heated up the iron on the hotplate. He turned to Cas and gripped his chin to make him look into his eyes.

“We can’t go to the hospital. We have to cauterize the wound or you’re gonna bleed to death. Do you understand me?” Cas nodded shakily, not trusting his voice as he glanced over at the iron heating up.

“Dee, we gotta set your nose. C’mere.” Sam called and Dean left Cas sitting where he was as he marched over to his brother.

“This is going to hurt worse than when you broke it. M’sorry.” Sam spoke softly, turning Dean to face him and lining his thumbs up on either side of Dean’s nose. He said a silent prayer and wrenched the bone back into place, jumping out of the way when it began to gush blood again. He handed Dean the towel he’d prepared.

“You wanna hold Cas…. or the iron?” He asked quietly.

“I’ll hold Cas. My eyes are watering and I can’t really see to cauterize it for him. But I can help keep him still.” Dean took off his belt and folded it in half, handing it to Cas.

“Put this between your teeth and bite down hard.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crowley looked at the scene on the street and felt himself breaking. None of this whole ordeal made any sense. With a trembling hand he lifted a cigarette to his lips and surveyed the teams working.

“So in the back we have a group of five local gambinos, beat to shit and killed and out here...out here. It was a firefight!” He yelled, spinning in place in the middle of the street and feeling his grip on reality slipping even further.

One of the CSU agents working on the front porch called him over. “Sir, I can’t get a decent sample.” He tossed his half-finished cigarette onto the pavement and stalked up the steps, a familiar smell assaulting him as soon as he got close enough to the pillars to pick out individual blood drops. He leaned down to sniff the splatter nearest him.

“FUUUUCK. They sprayed it down with ammonia. None of this is useable! FUCK! They’re brilliant. And they’re fucking killing me.” He tossed himself dramatically down into the bushes next to the house and flopped onto the ground. Something caught his eye before he could pick himself back up; a finger. A piece of a finger was just sitting in the dirt. He pulled a glove from his pocket and picked it up, folding it away into his pocket before anyone else saw.

He needed to get some answers and he didn’t need Boston’s Finest getting them first.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bobby is helping to tend to the last of their wounds and clean them up when they get the news. There’s to be a gathering of the New England Family heads at Lucifer’s house. Tonight. Sam and Dean catch each other’s eyes across the polished bar top. No words are spoken but none are really needed. Even if the man in black is going to be there, they have to go. It’s their best chance.

“I’m coming too, guys.” Cas wobbles, holding his injured hand across his chest while Bobby cleans up a cut on his back. “You’re not leaving me out after this shit.”

Sam and Dean exchange another look. Cas is an idiot, but he’s their idiot. He wants to help and they have no idea just how many guys they’re going to find when they show up tonight. They could use another set of hands, but the thought of him being injured even further hurts both of them.

“I know the layout of the house and the lands. I know where the guards are stationed. I can help you and you both know it.” Cas isn’t whining, but it’s a near thing. It’s also unnecessary. Sam and Dean want him there as much as they want to leave him behind but they know that his help will be worth it. They turn to Bobby.

“Time to load up.” He wants to say something to them, to try and keep them there and safe, but they all know it would be a wasted effort. He pulls the last stitch through Cas’s delicate skin and ties it off. He purses his lips together and nods while he heads for the small arsenal behind his bar.

“Y-y-you’re gonna need every gun I’ve got boys. We g-g-gotta get all our ducks on the same page before you leave.” He grabbed one of the boys’ duffel bags and starts to load it up, not noticing the boys’ muffled laughter and Cas’ stunned silence. 

“When I get back I’m gonna buy you a metaphor book cause this mix and match shit has gotta go.” Cas threw over his injured shoulder. Bobby passed behind him and took pleasure in poking him in the stitches.

“Respect your fuck-FUCK-fuckin’ elders, you ASS.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Crowley had a portable scanner with his FBI laptop at his hotel, so that’s where he went with the finger he’d found in the bushes. He lay back across the bed to think while the system ran the print. He was no longer sure he wanted to find these guys, whoever they are. A decade of the Anti-Mafia Unit with the Feds had left Crowley feeling like nothing could be done through the proper channels. Nothing could be done the legal way. These guys had taken out more of the mob, in a permanent way, than he’d done in years. Catching them and putting them in jail didn’t make a difference. Even if he could get them in jail half the time. He frowned at the ceiling.

The Mob had more money and more connections than anyone would even believe and his actual conviction rate would get him fired in any other division. In his division, a ten percent conviction rate was considered stellar. It wasn’t enough. He uncrossed and recrossed his ankles while he waited for his laptop to give him some results.

Suddenly he realized that he didn’t want to stop what these vigilantes were doing. He wanted to help them. God help him, he wanted to jump right in and join their crusade to wipe the fuckers off the face of the earth. As though his realization had manifested itself into the computer, he heard a ding of a notification and practically vaulted off the bed to see.

“Castiel St. Novak bag boy for the Yakavetta family.” He said aloud to the empty room as he looked at the mug shot on his screen. As he did, he was hit with another epiphany. He knew that face. He’d seen it before. Castiel had been the person that the two brothers had called to bring them their clothes at the police station. The brothers…. They must be the ones doing this.

Even more than just a few seconds before, he knew that he had to help them. He threw himself back onto the bed as everything ran through his head. How could he help them? Should he contact them? How would he contact them? He ran his hand over the case file sitting to his right and felt a business card.

“Bobby’s Bar.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They were caught sneaking into the house. The whole thing had been a trap. A setup. They were dragged to a bare cement room in the basement that could have no other function than the one that it was currently being used for. Each of them, Sam, Dean and Cas, were fastened to a chair before the beatings started. They went for Cas the fiercest, making sure blood was gushing down over his face and dripping from the tips of his hair. Sam and Dean yelled and screamed. They hurled verbal insults which got them punched. They spat blood and tried to free themselves from the heavy leather straps keeping them in their chairs, that got them kicked.

When Lucifer himself came into the room, that was when they both began to panic. He walked in, no trace of any emotion on his face and didn’t even seem to register that there were two people in the room other than Castiel. He pulled a gun from behind his back and with no warning, no words, no emotion, shot Castiel between the eyes. He left the room and his thugs followed him, leaving behind a deafening silence.

Sam was the first to start crying audibly, soft sobs reaching his brother’s ears. Dean turned, shifting his eyes past Cas’ body, slumped in the chair, to search out his brother. Tears were streaming from Sam’s eyes, mingling with the splattered blood there. Dean had never felt so heartbroken as he did looking at his brother in that moment, grieving over their best friend. Not when their dad left; not when their mom died. In that moment, he knew true heartbreak.

“Sammy.” He was  shocked at the waver in his own voice. He loved Cas as much as Sam did but he had never carried his emotions so close to the surface. He tested the cuffs around his wrists again and found them as unyielding as they’d been the moments before.

“Sammy. We gotta get free.” He bounced and shoved in his chair, swinging it around so that he could look Sam in the face instead of twisting his head around. His heart clenched in fear; if they could shoot Cas, they could shoot Sam and that was something Dean could not let happen.

“Sammy. Sam. You gotta look at me. We gotta get free. We gotta get out of here. There’s no backup for us. No one is gonna come and get us, we gotta do it ourselves, do you understand me? You’re gonna have to break my hand so I can get it out of these cuffs.”

Beautiful multi-colored eyes, shining with tears, shot up to meet his, and Dean could read the denial on Sam’s face before he even let the gasped “no” leave his mouth. Dean held eye contact and tried to remain calm and steadfast.

“Yes, you know it’s the only way. If I can get my hand out, I can get free and then get you free and my hands are smaller than yours.  _ Mo chroí. Mo Sammy. Tá a fhios agat seo. _ (My heart. My Sammy. You know this).”

Sam sniffled and stopped his crying, rubbing his wet cheek against his shoulder to try and clean his face as best he could. He nodded and straightened in the chair as much as he could.

“What do you need me to do?” 

Dean swallowed down the bile in the back of his throat at the thought of what was coming. But when he looked down as Cas’ lifeless body and then up into the sad, scared eyes of his brother, he found his resolve. He and Sam were not going to die today. He gestured for Sam to shove his chair behind Dean’s while he tilted his head down to pull his shirt between his teeth. It wasn’t much to bite down on, but it was something. Dean held one hand out as best he could and curled the other into a fist.

“Kick it, hard as you can. Stomp it. You’ve gotta break my hand so I can get it out of the cuff. Do it.” He growled through gritted teeth. Then he braced himself.

————————————————————-

As Crowley stood at the door of Lucifer’s mansion, he couldn’t be sure if his plan was genius or madness but he had no fear and, as he looked down at the slinky black dress he’d poured himself into, he had no shame either. When the door opened and he recognized the low level thug that opened it, he managed a coquettish smile.

“Any one here interested in having a party?” He stepped into the house and saw three more guys looking at him. He swung his hips and flipped the long hair of his wig over his shoulder; he knew how to act like a call-girl. He needed to make it believable. Two of the four were looking at him with little interest, one wasn’t looking at him at all but the one that opened the door clearly wanted. He batted his eyelashes.

“Got somewhere a little more private we can head to?” He stepped up close to the man, dragging a soft hand up the front of his pants and getting a feel for the man’s interest. His hand was grabbed and he was led down the hall to a bathroom, pushed inside and the door locked behind them.

“Don’t be shy now,c’mon over here.” He beckoned and kissed the man, forcing himself not to gag at the taste of his mouth. He let himself be pushed down to the floor, waiting for just the right moment. The man unzipped his pants and pulled his still only half-hard dick out just as Crowley pulled out his gun and silencer.

He stood up and watched the blood pool on the floor dispassionately. “Thank goodness for little black dresses.” He whispered to himself, cracking open the door to the bathroom to check that the coast was clear before he pressed the earpiece of his radio to activate it. 

“Three by the front door. I’m in a guest bath on the first floor off the west hallway. Can’t hear the boys at all.” He whispered to the mic, waiting for a reply from the three cops stationed in the van outside.

“Copy. We can be inside in 10 seconds if you need backup.” He heard Mills’ voice come over the radio and he smiled. He’d been right to trust the three cops he was working with, was even warming up to Milligan a little bit.

————————————————

Sam kept apologizing even though Dean had asked him to do it. He didn’t want to snap at his brother but it was grating at him, so instead, with both the broken and the not broken hand he grabbed Sam’s face and pulled him in for a blazing kiss. Sam melted against him and it made the pain in his hand fade nearly to nothing. He pulled his brother in close, could never get close enough, and pressed their chests together. He could feel their heartbeats syncing and their breathing slowing to match up.

“Don’t apologize, Sammy. Nothing matters but getting out of here with you. Nothing.” He held Sam’s eye until Sam nodded. He nodded in return and ducked his head for one more kiss, pressing their foreheads together after.

“We owe Cas this. Then, we are gone.” He felt more than saw Sam nod and they continued their work.

They wiped a lot of the blood off Cas’ slack face and placed pennies on his eyes. Then they each took a knee on either side of his body and lowered their heads to pray with rosaries in hand. Towards the end of the prayer, they felt the door behind them open and someone come into the room. As one, they stopped and turned, ready to fight for their lives.

It was the Man in Black.

He stepped forward towards them and Castiel’s body, and finished the family prayer for them before removing his glasses and the cap on his head.

“Dad?” Dean asked, bewildered and scared. Sam took his eyes off the man to look at Dean, then right back up at their father. John Winchester stood before them, a solemn look on his face.

He cupped a hand around each of their cheeks, taking his time to look at his boys. He’d missed so very much. He’d missed them so very much.

————————————————-

Crowley found them in the basement, the killers. The boys he’d met and been so amused by in the police station not that long ago and a tall, older man in black. The three turned as one to look at him when he stumbled into the room. He held up his hands as suddenly he was looking down the barrels of three guns.

“I’m here to help. Do you remember me, boys?” He asked, feeling a bit of fear for the first time. He never doubted his decision to help them, or to bring in the cops waiting in the van outside, but in that moment he hoped that they knew him to be a good man and not one that deserved their kind of vengeance.

“Aye, we remember you. Da, this is Special Agent Crowley from the FBI.” Dean clicked on the safety of his gun and put it away, with Sam following close behind. The man they identified as their father was slower to lower his weapon, but the need to get out of there must have been impressed upon him.

“The way out is clear and I have a group of good people, people like me who want to help, waiting in a van outside to get you away from here. But we have to go now.” Sam and Dean nodded their heads.

“I have my car, they won’t question my leaving and they know better than to come after me. You boys go with him. I’ll meet up with you. Do you know the abandoned Hotel Alexandra?” John asked his boys. Sam and Dean both nodded while Crowley looked up and down the hallway to make sure that no one was coming.

“Meet me there in two days at dawn. Bring your things, you’ll come with me.” With another tender press of his palms to his boy’s cheeks, John swept out of the room and was gone.

\------------------------------------------------------------------

Quietly delivered to an old safe house that was no longer in use by the Boston Police Department, Sam and Dean took a moment to collect themselves. They sat and ate the meal provided by detectives Mills, Hanscum and Milligan quietly before taking turns in the small bathroom and using up all the hot water they could.

They lay across the two twin beds in soggy towels and looked at each other. Dean had a bruise on his cheek from a punch and Sam’s bottom lip was swollen. Other than that, and Dean’s broken hand which was now wrapped, they were remarkably unharmed. There was no adrenaline high. There were no giddy exclamations of survival. 

There was heartbreak for their friend, gone too soon. There was silent confusion and contemplation on the appearance of their father, gone for more than twenty years. There was a silent tension in the room. The job they’d set out to accomplish was unfinished, but they could do no more at that moment.

With deliberate intent, Dean pulled off his towel and tossed it onto the floor, stretching himself across the bed and displaying for his brother. Sam’s eyes traced over familiar, exposed flesh hungrily. He felt his cock begin to fill and thicken as he took in the elegant lines of his brother’s body. The pale skin dotted with freckles and the barely there hair. The pink cock, rising from a nest of near ginger colored curls. The soft and steady rise and fall of Dean’s chest with each breath and the way his nipples hardened the longer he lay exposed to the cool air.

“ _ Mo chroí. Mo Sammy. I gá duit. _ (My heart. My Sammy. I need you).” Dean whispered into the quiet of the room and Sam could not deny himself or his brother any longer. He tossed his towel to the floor and crossed the two steps to the other bed. He placed a knee on the mattress beside Dean’s thigh and paused.

“ _ An dtógfaidh tú an am seo, an deartháir mhór? _ (Will you take me this time, big brother?).” Sam watched as Dean’s entire body rippled with pleasure at the question. He kept his eyes focused on the way that Dean’s stomach muscles contracted as he sat up. Sam felt Dean’s fingers tilting his chin up so their eyes could meet.

“ _ An uair seo nó ag am ar bith, mo chroí _ (This time or anytime, my heart.).” Sam let himself be rolled underneath Dean on the narrow bed and tilted his chin up to accept Dean’s kiss. He felt the bulk of Dean’s broken and wrapped hand on his side and Dean’s other hand traced lightly down his ribs and over his hips. Their cocks rubbed together between their stomachs as they each rocked their hips.

Sam breathed in the scent of the cheap soap and the sweat gathering on their skin as they kissed and ground their bodies together. He wanted Dean inside of him; he wanted everything that Dean could give and then he wanted even more. He felt lightheaded with greed for his brother. 

Dean shifted, trailing a line of kisses down Sam’s chin and throat, his tongue tickling the hollow at the base of Sam’s neck. Dean pressed biting kisses across Sam’s collarbones and down his chest, nibbling at Sam’s nipples, making them go tight and peaked with the pain/pleasure of it. Dean continued down Sam’s stomach, licking along the outlines of hard muscles there and pressing hard, closed-mouthed kisses into each of Sam’s hipbones.

“More,  _ deartháir _ (brother), more.” Sam whined, high in the back of his throat as Dean came so close to his cock but never touched it. He let Dean lift his leg and press it back towards his chest and when he realized what Dean was going to do his heart nearly stopped.

“Dee.” He gasped as he felt the first of many hot, wet strokes of Dean’s tongue along his crack. Sam hooked his elbow underneath his knee and held himself open even more, not even daring to look down and see Dean between his legs, knowing it would be too much for him to handle. He relaxed into the pillow and looked up at the ceiling as the feeling of Dean’s tongue in his ass took over. He could feel every breath, every thrust, every movement Dean made between his legs and it made his whole body throb with desire. He lifted his other leg and held it to his chest, exposing himself all the way and it made him feel wanton. 

“ _ Ba mhaith liom gach rud a chaithfidh tú a thabhairt. _ (I want everything you have to give).” Sam moaned aloud, his head tossing back and forth on the pillow as he felt two of Dean’s fingers slide inside of him alongside his wicked tongue. He nearly cried when Dean’s tongue pulled out, but then there was Dean’s broken hand reaching up to touch his chin and he opened his eyes to look down for the first time since Dean started.

Dean’s face was flushed, his lips even more pink and plump than usual. Sam could see the flush of arousal all the way down to Dean’s nipples on his chest and his eyes were dark, nearly totally dilated.

“ _ Ní mór duit ach gach rud a bheith agat i gcónaí _ (you and always you will always have my everything).” Dean grinned and looked off to the right, where the bedside table lay before looking back at Sam. Sam may be a genius but he didn’t need to be one in order to understand that signal. He let go of his leg and reached for the drawer, pulling it out and seeing a tiny bottle of lube there. He handed it to Dean without a word and lifted his leg back towards his chest again.

Dean prepped him agonizingly slowly, making sure to stretch his rim and get more lube than he thought they had inside of him. Dean spent long minutes kissing the soft skin of his inner thigh and rubbing against his prostate, until Sam thought he would die from want. He was incoherent, unable to even utter Dean’s name, let alone ask for Dean to finally get inside of him by the time Dean pulled his fingers out and shifted onto his knees between Sam’s spread thighs.

Sam felt no burn, no pain, as Dean pressed himself inside, only pleasure. Dean kept going and going, slow and steady, until Sam could feel his hips pressed to his ass. Dean leaned down, changing the angle of his cock inside Sam and making Sam twitch with the feeling of fullness, taking Sam’s lips in a long, lingering kiss. As they kissed, he began to move in a long, slow pull out and a fast, hard thrust back in. Sam, having been on the edge for the entire time they’d been naked, felt his orgasm approaching fast. He reached down to take his cock in hand and yelped at how sensitive it was. The sound made Dean stop.

“What is it? Did I hurt you?” Dean started to pull away, his cock slipping out of Sam’s ass and the head bumping into his prostate on the way. Sam issued another wordless cry as he wrapped his legs around Deans hips and pulled him back in. 

“Don’t you dare fucking stop.” Sam forced out of his dry throat and, though he paused for a moment too long, Dean did start shallowly thrusting his hips again. Sam arched up to meet him and soon the pace was faster, their bodies slapping together with near violence. 

Sam felt his orgasm hit him without a single touch to his cock and it felt so good it nearly hurt. He yelled aloud, his body shuddering and his lungs struggling to draw in air, as he came all over himself. His eyes rolled back into his head as he blacked out from it.

When Sam awoke, Dean was cradling him in the bed and crooning soft noises into his ear. He shook his head slightly and turned in Dean’s arms. They regarded each other for a moment, before Dean cracked a smile and they were laughing.

“So I guess you liked that, then?” Dean asked as he wiped tears of laughter from his cheeks.

“Yeah. We can do that anytime. How long was I out?”

“Long enough for me to finish and clean us both up. You scared me a little, Sammy.” That sobered them both up and the laughter stopped abruptly.

“Sorry.” Sam pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and bit down on it. “ _ Is breá liom tú _

 

(I love you).” He confessed, though he knew it didn’t need to be said. He read Dean’s reply in the way his eyes softened, and the way his arms tightened around him.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Three months later**

In the dead of the night, in a nondescript hotel room, two of the three Winchester boys awaken from a dead sleep. Sam and Dean gasp in unison and sit up in the darkness, both of them searching out the other before turning their eyes towards their father, sitting in the corner with the preparations for the next day spread around him.

“How far is this going to go?”Dean asks, shifting to place his feet on the floor as he knows he won’t be falling back to sleep any time soon.

“The question isn’t how far is it going to go. The question is are you willing to take this as far as it needs to go? We have support. We have a plan. We have the resources necessary to get it done and get away. Are you ready?” John asks calmly, placing the gun in his hands down on the table and regarding his boys.

Sam and Dean exchange another look. “Aye, we are ready.”

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The trial of Don Lucifer Yakavetta is just beginning when Detectives Hanscum and Milligan push two black duffel bags around the metal detector at the front door of the courthouse. As they make their way through the building, Detective Mills is at a rarely used side door, letting in three men, dressed all in back. The six people meet up near a janitor's closet on the floor above the courtroom.

“Ready?” Mills asks, holding one of the bags open as the Winchesters check their guns and prepare for one last good deed.

“Aye. We’re ready.”

The detectives disperse, heading to the designated spots in the building where they wait for the deed to be done. The Winchesters share a look before heading to courtroom A. The Winchesters burst into the courtroom, guns drawn and the detectives bar the door. For this to work, people have to witness their final act before they vanish.

John grabs Lucifer from the witness chair and hauls him to the front of the room, encouraging him into his knees with the barrel of his gun. Sam leaps onto the defense table while Dean mirrors him on the prosecution table. They point their guns into the assembled audience to ensure they have every eye on them.

An alarm blares throughout the room, but no one is yelling besides Lucifer. He is yelling, calling them names and attempting to command his men in the room to take them out. However, unlike the Winchesters, the Don’s men are not armed and, unaccustomed to such a bold display, are nearly frozen with fear.

Sam yells over the alarm, “Now, you will receive us.”   
“We do not ask for your poor or your hungry.” Dean continues   
“We do not want your tired and sick.” Sam yells again, and they continue on in the call and answer style.

“It is your corrupt we claim.”

“It is your evil, who will be sought by us.”

“With every breath we shall hunt them down.”

“Each day we will spill their blood till it rains down from the skies.”

“Do not kill, do not rape, do not steal. These are principles which every man of every faith can embrace.” Dean hops down from his table, never taking his eyes from the crowd as he moves closer to his father and Lucifer on his knees.

“These are not polite suggestions. They are codes of behavior and those that ignore them will pay the dearest cost.” Sam answers as he jumps to the floor himself and joins his family. He points to Lucifer.

“There are varying degrees of evil. We urge you, lesser forms of filth,” Dean pauses to point at the known Yakavetta family members “Not to push the bounds and cross over into true corruption… into our domain.”

“For if you do, there will come the day when you look behind you and see we three. And on that day, you will reap it.”

“And we will send you to whatever God you wish.”

At that, John cocks his shotgun while Sam and Dean take up position on either side of him, behind Lucifer. Loud enough for every last person in the room to hear them, they recite the family prayer in unison. When they finish, they each pull the trigger and Lucifer’s head explodes over the floor. 

In the ensuing chaos, the Winchesters escape through the side door into the Judge’s chambers where Crowley and Hanscum are waiting. He hoods each of them like criminals and places handcuffs on their wrists. He chains them together while Hanscum takes their guns and loads them into the duffles. As sedately as they can, with the ‘prisoners’ chained between them, Crowley steps out of the room and into the chaotic hallway. They walk them towards the back entrance where a police van waits, engine on and Milligan behind the wheel.

No one sees them leave.

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
